In the vineyard of my love

I don't have anything insightful or even interesting to say right now, but I might not be able to write later and I feel a duty to check in here every day.

Okay, untrue. I have a lot to say, but it's very painful. Not sure I'm up to it.

Last night was not a good drinking night. I bought one of my favorite white wines, drank 3.5 glasses, and shared the rest with A. While I finished my last glass, he went to the corner store and returned with more wine, one of those double-size bottles of cheap yummy stuff that we jokingly (ha, ha, ha) call hobo wine. I had a glass of that too and staggered off to bed. So that was almost 5 glasses, almost a whole bottle.

While we were doing this drinking, I was happy. I knew that I wouldn't be happy with myself today, that in fact I'd feel simultaneously ashamed and nauseous. And I do. But at the time, we were in our drink-sharing zone, a fun, carefree, liquidy place of video watching and smooching. He looked so delighted to be there with me again. He wanted me to feel good, wanted us to feel good together. I wanted those things too.

He came to bed several hours later, blitzed. I couldn't fall back asleep. It occurred to me to wonder how much he'd had to drink. (Cue the codependent anthem, please...) Finally I got up and looked. The giant wine bottle was in the recycling along with the one I'd finished earlier. Two fingers of scotch were gone. So was the last remaining beer in the fridge. All together, A drank 10 glasses of wine, 2 scotches, and 1 beer last night, along with 2 beers he'd had earlier in the day.

How is he not dead? He had to teach today, last classes of the semester. He got up and did it, very hungover. And this is not a person who often has visible hangovers.

Oh, the enmeshment. Blah blah blah responsible for my use, not his. Blah blah blah boundaries.

I told A this morning that I was surprised he was conscious, and he asked why. I told him I'd had only one glass of the hobo wine; he'd drunk the rest himself. He looked shocked, then remorseful. I suggested that this must be pretty hard on his body. He agreed.

So tonight I need to try to finish this conversation. I need to say, look, I've determined that I need help, and I'm going to see a therapist. You may want to consider that for yourself.

I need to say, I'm not going to live this life. This was my mother's life, counting drinks and wondering how my dad was functioning. But it won't be mine, just as my dad's life won't be mine either.

The likelihood that I'll say all these things, the second part in particular, is not high. But maybe I can make a start. I would make a joke at this point that it might be easier if I have a glass of wine first, but that wouldn't be funny, would it? Because it would be true.